


Trotting on Down the Road to Destiny

by parallelmonsoon



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Amnesia, Angst, Death, Feral Behavior, Hurt Virgil, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Our elves are different, Patton is a Cyborg Dog?, Purposeful amnesia, Violence, Virgil is an elf, Wolf soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:06:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parallelmonsoon/pseuds/parallelmonsoon
Summary: Virgil just wanted the saddlebags.  They were full to bursting- with coin, with food, and if he were lucky, maybe even with clothing warmer then his threadbare tunic.  He never meant to get involved.  He never meant to go deep and *remember*.  It was so much easier to go gentle and walk as a wolf.Logan had to admit he was impressed.  Not enough to give up the package he carried- too much depended on it.  But the elf had managed what few others ever had.  He'd taken Logan by surprise and that was worthy of admiration.  The road ahead is long and it wouldn't hurt to have a guide-And Patton?  Patton is just happy to have a new pup.  And this one- this one is going to survive. Patton will make sure of it.No matter what.(In which Virgil is an elf with a wolf's soul, Logan has appointments to keep, and Patton is a cyborg dog built to kill.  I don't know either, folks. This is a weird one.)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

The old oak was restless.

Virgil crooned to her and stroked her sweaty bark. He could feel the tree's pulse through the bough on which he perched, a faltering, thunderous rhythm that rustled the thick, fleshy leaves. Pores near the trunk pushed out a sigh that smelled of sap and creeping mold.

'Friend,' Virgil murmured, not in his own language or the common tongue but in the tonal manner of growing things. The oak sighed again and settled with a groan.

Virgil sighed with her. She had been green and splendid in the summer, but with autumn had come the rot. Now her branches oozed red with lesions and her leaves were wrinkled and sloughing their skins. Her lone sapling was still but a thin, naked stick huddled in its mother's shadow, but she would not live long enough to see her baby grow.

Movement on the trail below drew his eye. The same leaves that cloaked Virgil obscured his vision, offering only broken glimpses of the travelers. The setting sun darkened the shadows, stretching them out across the crumbling cobblestones, and the man and his dog seemed to blend into the dappled light. The dog was piebald, splotched in white and gray. The man wore blue so dark it was almost black.

' _War dog,'_ Virgil thought. Mercenaries, then, most likely. The ragged kelpie doll that hung by a frayed cord around the canine's throat and the book in the man's hands hinted that they might be more, but it was the heavy, full saddlebags that made Virgil shift and show his teeth in a smile. Full to bursting, those bags- with food, with coin, and perhaps, if he were lucky, with clothes warmer then his threadbare tunic.

He had not been lucky of late.

Virgil waited until the man and his mount crossed in front of his chosen tree. He crouched low, dagger in hand, and hummed a high command. The oak's pores flared wide as she flexed her branch and launched him toward his target.

The man turned at her roar, hand dropping to his scabbard and sending his book tumbling into the dirt. Too late. The impact lifted him free of the saddle and sent them both into the underbrush. Virgil let his momentum roll him clear, then scrambled back before the mercenary could gather his wits and touched his dagger to the man's throat.

“Still.” Virgil's Common was clumsy, but he knew enough to make his point. “Dog sits.”

The war dog's growl rumbled out low and rolling. “Easy, Pat.” The man's voice was calm enough to make Virgil bristle. “Do as he says.”

The dog settled back on its haunches. Slowly, still growling, its long, armored tail raising dust as it swept back and forth. Its eyes blazed blue, and Virgil snarled back to hide his shudder.

“Saddlebags,” Virgil said, “Dog drops bags. Dog leaves.”

The dog's growling grew deeper. Layering over with static, and Virgil-

_-static and screams and sudden silence-_

Virgil shook it off and pricked the man's neck with his blade. “Dog leaves,” he said again, “Dog leaves!”

“Pat, it's okay. Go on, sweetheart.”

The dog twisted to sever the ties of the saddlebags with a swipe of its metal claws. Virgil waited until it disappeared around the next bend in the path before pulling the man's sword from its sheath and tossing it far aside.

“Good,” he told his prisoner, “Man lives, maybe.”

His wolf soul was telling him not to take the chance. One hard blow to the temple, and he thought he could reach the bags and scale the oak before the dog returned. The plan had served him well enough before, but this was no ragged pilgrim bound for Mecca. The wolf inside his skin recognized the man as a fellow hunter and wanted the threat to its territory eliminated.

“There is a package in the bags that I must retain,” the man said. Still smooth, still calm, as if he weren't flat on his back with a blade at his throat. “Leave me that and the rest is yours.”

No plea for mercy but an order, as if Virgil were just another dog to command. The dagger's tip dug in deep, sending a rivulet of blood dripping down to wet the thirsty dust.

The man grimaced. “If you kill me he'll never stop hunting you. You must know that.”

And suddenly-

Suddenly Virgil **did** know it. Not as a firelight story but as a raw and terrible truth.

He **remembered**.

Another man, another dog. More blood, enough to pool and glisten. Later there had been more men, more dogs. Static and screams and silence. Silence that grew and echoed and settled deep-

His head hurt.

He didn't feel it, when the man below him tensed. The mercenary rolled them both, plucking Virgil's dagger from his hand in the same, smooth movement.

Virgil closed his eyes and lifted his chin, offering his throat to the blade.

_'Go deeper,'_ he thought.

He didn't want to die with those memories in his head. Better to go further, to listen to the mercenary's slow, steady breathing and find within it the sound of the waves on shore. If he was going to remember, he wanted to remember the lake and the twilight songs of frogs. He'd forgotten so much, and it was so sweet to see it now, to imagine that perhaps it was where he would be going.

“You had me, I admit that,” the mercenary said, “Impressive, but I don't think you really thought this through.”

The wolf soul didn't think. It hunted, and Virgil had given himself over to it. Had left everything else behind to walk its trail and he was angry, angry to be awake again, to **know** -

(-hunted as the dogs had hunted, rooting out the children from their hidden places-)

**No**. If you must go deep, go deeper.

The lake. Sand drifting down from his hand and into the current. A golden curl that sparkled as it drifted. His mother's scent, melted tallow and ripe plum.

A gunshot.

Virgil would have taken it for a memory, but the pressure of the blade against his skin disappeared as the mercenary threw himself to one side. A hand settled on his shoulder, fingers digging into the tender flesh under his collarbone until Virgil gasped and opened his eyes.

The mercenary's high-boned, angular face was close to his own. He wore glasses, and behind their lenses his eyes were narrow and very blue. “You'll have to die later, I'm afraid,” he said, “We have company.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *underlined text is in Elven*  
> *serious warning for somewhat graphic violence and death*

Four men. Rushing down the trail, the leader grizzled and with pistol in hand, the others armed only with crude knives and desperation.

The mercenary whistled, a two-toned note that rang out high and piercing. “On your feet, stripling.” He was pulling at Virgil, tugging him up. Virgil let it happen, but there was no urgency in him, only sorrow and slow curdling rage.

“Take cover in the trees,” the mercenary told him, but even as he spoke the man was turning back, darting out into the open to lift the puddled bags and sling them over his shoulder. Virgil stood and watched. Waiting- for what, he could not say.

_'My lake,'_ he thought, ' _I was going to my lake.'_

The pistol barked again. Something small and hot buzzed past Virgil's cheek. The blood ran sweet across his lips.

Virgil touched his tongue to it and let his wolf soul rise.

“Boy!”

The mercenary reached for him and missed when Virgil pushed past. There was no reason for the man to follow. He might have made use of the distraction, might have disappeared between the thickly clustered trunks and been done with it.

But there he was, close at Virgil's heels. A flicker of spots and steel and the dog joined them, running at the mercenary's side. The man pulled himself into the saddle without breaking stride.

The dog- they had not expected the dog. The grizzled man was tall and broad, with the long, unkempt beard of the mountain tribes. Not canny but fierce- and still he hesitated. A split second choice.

Run. Surrender. Things might have gone differently, then.

The mountain man stumbled to a stop, but only to raise his gun and take aim.

Wrong choice.

The rifle bolted between the dog's ears sang out its own angry note. The mountain man's face disappeared in a shattering of blood and bone. He fell twitching into the dust and his followers leapt over his corpse.

Virgil closed with the first, a small, weedy man with a ruinous tumor spouting from his scalp. He dodged the first wild swipe of the knife and let his wolf soul do the rest. Phantom teeth closed on the bandit's throat, crushing the windpipe. He died with a gurgle, hands outstretched toward the dusk-dark sky.

The remaining two had foresight enough to work as a team. One slashed at the dog's exposed forelegs while the other tried to pull its rider from the saddle. A valiant effort. The dog reared, lashing out with its claws and sending one man tumbling. The other fell to the mercenary's sword, scrabbling urgent at his opened chest

The man the dog had struck lay moaning. Virgil stalked closer slowly, wary of a trick. 

But no. The claws had taken him across the eyes, and Virgil's anger fell quiet at the sight of those flayed sockets. He felt pity but no guilt as he knelt beside him. 

“Fly free or fall, ” he whispered to him in his own tongue. As everyone must at the end of their days- Virgil knew that when his time came he would fall, but if fate were kind he would fall into water that swirled gold with sand. 

His hand dropped to his hip but his dagger's sheath was empty. He startled badly when the mercenary rode close and offered his weapon by its hilt. The dog was whining, ears pinned low and tail rattling, head turned aside as if to avoid what it had done. The mercenary patted its neck and nodded for Virgil to finish it. 

The blade slide easily between the ribs. A final push and a twist- 

“For weft or weave- ” Virgil told the corpse. 

“-go gently or go deep. ” The mercenary mangled the complicated vowels of Virgil's mother tongue, but he spoke softly and with reverence. “Go on,” he said in Common when Virgil looked to him in surprise. “Close the circle.” 

“ Fox or starling, _ ” _ Virgil said. The light was fading quickly now, the sun dropping down below the oak's curling leaves, “ Stag or hound.”

“And now-” the mercenary said over the whining of the dog, “You and I need to have a talk, I think.” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The bodies were dragged from the road and stripped of their packs. A silver pendant the only thing of real value; Virgil traced the engraving of the family crest before slipping it into his pocket. They were said to haunt the taker, but Virgil saw little reason to fear the newly dead. He was haunted by too many ghosts for one more to make a difference.

If the mercenary had noticed the theft he gave no sign, pointing instead to Virgil's torn cheek and clicking his tongue against his teeth. “That'll scar- I have a salve that should help.”

He turned, then.

Walked away, showing Virgil his vulnerable back. That easily.

Ignorant or unconcerned or both? The dog- the dog was there, close by, dipping its head to clean its claws with a curling tongue. Still, Virgil might have tried. To escape, to attack. He might have done **something**.

The mercenary looked back when he realized Virgil was not following. He patted his hip, and Virgil dropped his head and obeyed the summons.

This wasn't going gentle. To go gentle was to give way to the wolf, to leave the past behind for the now. To go gentle was to **survive**. This- this was the creep of ice across a shallow stream, the fur of frost on moss. His wolf soul felt distant, as if it had already fled to partner anew.

The mercenary rummaged through his bags. He turned again to Virgil, reaching out to tip his face to the side. Virgil sighed and kept his eyes open, waiting for the flash of the blade and the final, biting pain.

And pain there was. Careful fingers spread wide the gash beneath his eye, a slower, lesser hurt then Virgil had anticipated. Still he shied from it, backing away and shaking his head.

He had helped to move the corpses, expecting all the while that when the grisly task was done he would join them. The pendant had been taken from habit, not hope. Even when the mercenary had spoken of scars and salves he had thought it a trap, bait to lure him close.

“No!” His wolf was back. Virgil crouched low beneath its weight. “No!” Confusion, not denial, but he did not have the words for more.

Twice now. Twice in one day he had readied himself and been spared, and Virgil was quite thoroughly **done** with it.

The mercenary blinked down at him. The tips of his fingers dripped a viscous, yellow fluid that stank like fresh dung. Behind him the war dog huffed and shook its head in the laughter of its kind.

(- they had laughed just the same as they stood over the bodies. Had howled, a victory song that put the birds to flight-)

“No?” the man echoed, “After a battle it is customary to tend to the wounds of your allies. I've never heard that elves felt differently- surely you don't leave each other to bleed out in the dirt.”

The flow of his speech was difficult for Virgil to follow, but in any language the sarcasm was clear. Virgil snarled, hand dropping to his dagger's hilt. The mercenary had let him **keep** it. He was either **that** confident in his own abilities or as addled as a draglet down to only two heads.

“Allies,” Virgil agreed. “Not-” He motioned between the two of them. Not whatever- **this** \- was.

“Interesting,” the man muttered, and he sounded honestly bemused. “My people define allies as those who fight side by side. Do elves translate it differently?”

Done. Virgil was done. He was tired of this game, with its rules he could not hope to grasp.

“Kill or not!” he snarled while his wolf soul growled. “But stop talking!”

It worked, if only briefly. Lovely silence- and then the mercenary snorted and turned his laugh into a cough, hiding a smile behind his hand. The dog had no such qualms, gamboling about until its rider swatted at its flank. Virgil tensed-

The dog shouldered its way between them. “That's not the first time I've been told to shut up,” the man said as he fussed over it, rubbing behind a floppy ear and setting that lethal tail wagging. “But I can't say it's ever been that heartfelt before. I'm not going to kill you, stripling- not unless you give me further reason to. I have a proposition for you.” He clucked his tongue again at Virgil's blank stare. “A bargain. A **deal**. Elves like that sort of thing, don't they?”

* * *

The elf was young. Too young to be away from his kind, and far too young to kill with such ease. Many thought the fey ageless only because they coddled their young, keeping them hidden and cloistered until they lost their first soul. It was only when they obtained their second- caught by them instead of given- that they were allowed out into the wider world.

But this elf- all long limbs and graceless frustration. Utterly out of balance, his features hidden by the shadow of a snapping muzzle and high, pricked ears. Coyote, perhaps, or jackal. Only his wide eyes shone clear, the color of a bruised plum in the firelight.

' _Just a pup,'_ Logan thought with something like despair, _'So where's your pack?'_

“Easy,” he mumbled, but the boy did not flinch this time when Logan spread the gash and packed it with as much salve as he dared spare. His soul lashed its tail and flattened its ears, but the elf himself was worryingly docile. Just as he had been as they set camp, even leading Logan and Patton to a clearing without a fuss. Logan didn't think it was the elf's grove, but it was *a* grove, and that the elf had given it over so easily-

“A little closer, Pat.” It was easier to see by the light of Patton's eyes then the flickering flames. Logan sealed the edges of the wound with a dab of bindweed and sat back on his heels.

The boy growled at him, but it was perfunctory at best, wavering and weak and exhausted. Logan set Patton a flash of memory- the war dog as a clumsy-pawed youngster, cringing back from the shadow that fell over him.

Patton sent back the other side. A boy with Logan's eyes, scrambling away from the spotted, snarling beast that stalked him. Logan chuckled lightly.

 _'You were frightening,'_ he sent, _'In better shape then this little scrap of a thing.'_

A jackal standing over a mauled corpse. Throat torn, eyes wide and bulging with the final terror. Patton spoke in pictures, not words, and the clarity of the image told Logan just how worried he truly was.

 _'No, I don't intend to underestimate him, scrap that he is,_ _'_ Logan assured.

“There now,” he chided the elf, “Was that such a hardship to allow? Have you decided on your answer?”

He needed a guide and the pup needed feeding. Teaming up seemed an elegant solution to both problems.

“Two meals a day,” he reminded, because the elf was hesitating and Logan honestly could not fathom why. “A set of clothes and a cloak. Non-binding- you may leave if you wish at any time. Do not steal from me or try to bring us harm and we will not harm you in return.”

It seemed straight-forward enough. Still the elf grimaced, his shoulders hunching high as he dropped his gaze. 

“Herontown- not.” He paused, head tilting as he tried to find the words. His comprehension seemed better then his speech and his accent was heavy, drawing out the vowels as he would in his own language. “This one- I- no.” 

“You don't know the way,” Logan clarified. 

Ah. He appreciated the honesty, in any case. The elf could have lead them quite a merry chase. Starvation had a funny way of overcoming cultural mores, even those as deeply embedded as the elven belief that a contract must be both upheld and of benefit to all parties. 

“Herontown is quite some distance. Past Mecca- do you know Mecca?” 

The elf nodded. Logan chose to ignore how the boy looked surprised that he hadn't already been chased off into the night. 

“Mecca, then.” Logan would have rather avoided that snake's den entirely, but it was a fortnight down the road- enough time to fatten the pup up a bit. “You get me as far as Mecca, and I'll give you twenty copper when we reach the gates.” 

“Mecca” the elf agreed, and that was that. 

Logan patted his own chest. “Logan.” He pointed to Patton, who was amusing himself by rolling on his back, tongue lolling in a grin. “Patton-Cake-On-The-Heart.” 

He gave the war dog's call name instead of the shortened barn to demonstrate that the elf need not offer more then he felt comfortable with. He was given to understand that elves put rather more stock in names and the gifting of them then humans, and Patton himself would not have cared either way. 

The pup drew himself up then. Worn down little scrap, yes, but holding tight to his dignity. “Virgil/Robin.” 

The names were wrong in so many ways. In language- his body name, Virgil- that was a distinctively  **human** name. Odd, certainly but his soul name- the robin was a bird of years gone past. Once a symbol of spring and rebirth, it stood now for the dead and the dying, for things lost that would not return. 

Soul names had meaning, Logan knew, and the meaning of Virgil's soul was endings. 

**


	4. Chapter 4

Virgil lay on a burrowed blanket. Belly full to aching, a dull and pleasant pain that eclipsed the sting at his cheek. 

The man and his dog slept on the other side of the fire. It did not surprise him to learn they snored in unison.

Logan- Virgil did not know what to make the man. He had read before he slept, nose scrunching as he squinted at the pages in the flickering firelight. His scent was of dust, of yellowing scrolls and the small, creeping creatures that burrowed there. Without the dog Virgil would not have thought much of him at all. Would have dismissed him as a wandering scholar from one of the great city-colleges, out on a finder's quest to earn his keep. 

But Virgil had watched him fight. Watched him kill, and Logan had not blinked.

And there **was** the dog, in any case. It wore no trophies of past hunts, only the battered, one-eyed doll. There should have been bones rattling against the spines of its tail, dried ears dangling from the saddle.

...not that he would know. How could he? He'd never seen the like. 

( _Gently. So gently, just along the surface where nothing hurts, nothing twists, an easy stride and an easy drift-_ )

Virgil's hand drifted to the scabbard at his hip. He could kill them now, the both of them, and fly free of it all, the confusion and the questions and the rotten ache in his skull.

A wardog who wore toys instead of skulls. A human who knew the prayers of elves.

The wind rustled through the branches high above. Virgil lifted his chin, gaping his jaw and sucking in the taste of it. 

-a sharpness, the brittleness of dry wood and the green crisp tart of under-ripe berries.

Virgil's hand slipped from his dagger's hilt. He shifted a little closer to the dwindling flames, humming soft and content at the warmth against his skin.

The snows were coming. Soon they would sweep down from the high peaks, driving the lean deer before them. He could kill the man and the dog, but Virgil could not kill the winter.

He slept.

* * *

Logan did not consider himself a patient man.

Methodical, yes, but that was a very different thing. He watched through barely slitted eyes as the pup fussed and tried very, very hard not to sigh.

And all the while the elf's soul skin was howling. Silently, thankfully, but still. The **drama**. 

Patton sent him bubbles. Pop-pop-pop, effervescent amusement. Logan swamped them under a tide of bilious yellow.

Two hours. Two hours of feigning sleep and watching the whelp do the same. At this point Logan didn't much care if he went on the attack or not, so long as he got **on** with it. 

- **finally**. The elf's soul was settling, stretching its jaws in a yawn and drifting down close to its partnered body. Curling snug, and when Patton went lax Logan knew that Virgil was sleeping...truly sleeping...at last.

A choice had been made, and Logan was relieved that the day's killing was done. Patton sent agreement; three silhouettes disappearing around a bend in the trail.

‘ _At the very least_ ,’ Logan thought, ‘ _This is sure to be interesting_.’


	5. Chapter 5

They broke fast with a simple meal of dark bread and cheese. The elf seemed sluggish in the morning light, accepting Logan's offer of a spare cloak with a grunt. Even his wolf seemed subdued, slinking low with tail tucked tight.

Logan ignored him for the most part as he broke down the camp. A bit of culture shock, perhaps. He had a suspicion Virgil had been alone with only the trees for company for some time, and certainly Logan himself was not given to prattle for the sake of it.

The food had done the pup some good, at least. Two solid meals had brought a touch a color to his cheeks. Patton disagreed; a pine dried brittle, standing stark against a barren winterscape.

Logan slapped the war dog's haunch and tugged the cinch a little tighter before swinging himself into the saddle. “Come along,” he told Virgil, “Unless there are things you need to gather?”

Virgil stared at him. There was no confusion in his eyes, nor fear, just a disturbing blankness.

“Boy?” Logan nudged Patton forward with his knees. The elf did not blink when the dog snuffled wet at his chin, even as his soul flashed its fangs in warning. Logan frowned. “We've a ways to go and little time. Patton can carry us both.”

He reached down, meaning to hoist Virgil up behind him. His soul's teeth sheared shut a bare inch from Logan's fingers and the elf broke, bolting from the clearing and disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

“...well,” Logan said after a lengthy pause, “That was not ideal.”

Patton shook his head until his ears flapped against his cheeks. His laughter broke across Logan's mind like a splatter of warm rain. With it came a flow of rapid images. A snake slithering into tall grass. Shadows shrinking from the light. A flock of doves disappearing over the horizon.

“Yes, he certainly is a flighty one,” Logan agreed, “I think it best to rethink this agreement. I've...”

Logan's teeth clicked closed on his tongue when Patton sat his rump down and nearly toppled him from his perch. The wardog turned his head to pin his rider with one soft brown eye.

“No,” Logan said.

Patton whimpered.

Logan sighed, crossing his arms and trying to look dignified while awkwardly straddling his mount's sloped back. “Already?” It was a rhetorical question, and Patton only lolled his tongue out in a toothy grin.

“On your head be it,” Logan muttered, and stepped back to stand on his own two feet. Patton whipped around to face him, nuzzling in while his tail wagged wild.

“Yes, yes.” Logan pushed him back, fending off the lashing tongue with the ease of regrettable practice. “Now stay here.”

A streak of lightning against a roiling sky.

Logan caught Patton by the cheeks and forced him to meet his gaze. “Stay.” He softened the command by rubbing his thumbs along the dog's jowls. “A wardog tracking his trail would only trigger him further. I'll keep my guard, and if he hurts me you are welcome to eat him.”

* * *

_(-always close behind, panting loud. Snarling and barking with that terrible static overlay, and the **screams** , the screams were dying out-)_

He hadn't meant to go deep. Hadn't meant to remember **again**. But the dog had been so close, and the man...

( _-his father, skull broken, alive but unliving and had Virgil closed the circle for him? How could he remember so much but not that?-_ )

A broken branch caught Virgil's cloak. He tore himself free with a snarl, only dimly aware of the thorns raking his flesh. His wolf soul was leading him south, back toward the trail and the tree that had sheltered him. If he could only reach it he would be safe among her leaves. They would face the winter together, and her sapling would grow fat and tall on their flesh.

The oak was in sight when a heavy weight hit Virgil from behind. He went down hard, screaming his frustration and fear when his arms were pinned down against his sides.

“Kill!” Virgil threw his head back in hopes catching his captor's face. “Yes kill! No dog.”

His strength left him that quickly. Virgil bent forward against the pressure of the arms around his chest and ground his forehead into the dirt.

“No dog,” he whispered, a broken, helpless litany, “Kill. Please kill. But dog no.”

* * *

Logan shook his head and slung blood from his broken nose. He rather fancied the whelp's soul would have been better represented as a weasel. It had been like holding one at first, all whip crack fury and rabid desperation.

Now the elf lay heavy against the noose of his arms, body shaking with the force of his sobs.

“No dog. Just kill. I...please. No.”

He had heard such appeals before, and last time he hadn't been given the luxury of listening. Logan shifted carefully to arrange them both a little more comfortably.

“No dog.” It was hard to give the promise strength when his own breath was thinned by the chase, “Hush, stripling. Go gentle...”

He meant the elven words as comfort, but Virgil shuddered hard and gagged, spilling his earlier meal into the loam. Logan tugged him back from the mess, grimacing when he saw the blood that streaked it. Bright red, which was reassuring, but more than enough to be worrisome.

“You're a mess,” he told the boy shuddering in his arms, “An ulcer, is it? Nothing in your belly so it tried to eat itself?”

He made idle conversation (here he was, prattling on after all) while the sun crept slowly higher. The elf's sobs faded to the occasional hiccup, but his muscles stayed tense and his soul was doing its level best to twist 'round far enough to find Logan's throat. A wolf; he could see that clearly now, and wondered how he could have mistaken it for anything else. Staying out of its reach was proving rather difficult.

It was near midmorning when both elf and soul went limp and lax. Logan pushed himself up on his knees and tipped Virgil back enough to see his face. The wound across the elf's cheek had opened and bled freely, but it was his eyes that worried Logan. Blank again, staring almost blindly up at the distant clouds. His wolf soul licked its lips and yawned, a gesture of surrender that only heightened Logan's unease.

Still, he could not help his fascination. Much of the writing on elves was disjointed at best, written by outsiders and more speculation than fact. Logan knew they were composites; body and soul, at their best when in balance.

Virgil was very much **not** in balance. Where it was not merged through the boy Logan could feel the wolf soul's fur against his arms, the rise and fall of its chest. Nearly solid...solid enough to kill, and he did not think that a good sign.

It was rumored too that elves could leave pieces of themselves by the wayside. Their identities were fickle, their souls interchangeable. Was that what this was? Was Virgil attempting to walk away from himself, and if so, what would remain?

“Ready to listen?” he asked. When that got no response he jostled the elf until Virgil drew in a sharp breath and blinked. He startled badly when he realized he was being held, but his wolf stayed docile and his snarl was a tremulous thing. It might have been Logan's imagination, but he thought the wolf itself seemed a little more transparent, a little less present, than before. “There. Greetings. Are you ready to listen?”

Virgil tried to squirm loose and when that proved futile dipped his chin in a nod. Good. The pup had some sense after all.

“You know wardogs?” Logan asked.

Virgil dug his heels into the earth and pushed himself up enough so he could roll up his sleeve. The revealed scar was keloid and gnarled, a sign the wound had festered. “Know dogs,” he said, “Felt dog teeth.” He let the sleeve fall and lifted his new tunic to show his sunken belly. The scar there was a thin bright line that curved below his ribs. “Felt men's blades.”

“But you haven't felt **my** blade,” Logan reminded him, “And you haven't felt Patton's teeth. If we meant to do you harm we've had ample opportunity. Instead we offered you a deal.”

He released the elf with a push that sent him fumbling forward. Logan stumbled to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles settling in his limbs. “Patton is my friend. If you can't tolerate that, you are free to leave. I need a guide, but there are others who would take the same offer and require less care.”

Harsh, perhaps, and no doubt Patton would have scolded him for it. But Logan's interest in the whelp was rapidly waning. In other circumstances he might have been more inclined to coddle, for he did admire Virgil's willingness to fight.

Too much depended on what he carried to delay things for a stray.

“Patton is the one who sent me after you. He's like that, you know. He wants to **help**.” Logan shook his head in disgust that was more fond than mocking. “But if you choose to stay, this **stops.** No more gnashing your teeth or haring off. You don't have to like us or trust us, but you **cannot** waste our time.”

Virgil had pushed himself up on hands and knees. The posture made him look more wolf than elf, his soul skin shrouding him almost completely from view.

“...doll?” he asked finally, “Why?”

“That isn't my tale to tell. All I can say is it belonged to Patton's first owner, a little boy.”

Not that he knew the full story himself. He could guess at it by the things Patton left unsaid, and the bones there were better left buried.

“Not the same,” Virgil muttered, “Could have bitten. Didn't. Should have.”

The words weren't meant for him, but Logan answered all the same. “Didn't and won't. Neither of us kills without cause. Now...do we have a deal? A real deal, one you won't break the next time you get spooked.”

Virgil stood, dusting off his knees and scrubbing at his cheek. He glanced at the blood on the back of his hand and licked at it absently, humming his pleasure at the flavor.

He looked up at Logan through his bangs, suddenly shy, and the pup's youth struck home all over again.

“Deal,” he agreed, “But...walk? I. I walk?”

Logan sighed. “If you must,” he said agreeably enough. It would spare Patton's back, at least. “But walk fast, understand? Can you do that?”

The torn cheek oozed a fresh gout of blood when Virgil smiled. “Yes,” he said, “ **Yes**.”


End file.
